


Show Off

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Lestrade - Freeform, Lestrade gets it, Paternal Lestrade, Sherlock is vulnerable, Show-Off Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 00:51:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4983511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Back then, it'd been easy to ignore shaking junkies with glazed over eyes, but the first time Sherlock stormed into the Yard, Lestrade couldn't take his eyes off the man. The cutting accent, the angles of his face, the way he bore himself tall and straight-backed. This man had no shame." </p><p>One time Lestrade was there for Sherlock when John wasn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Show Off

In Lestrade's eyes, Sherlock's a bit of a show off. From the very beginning, back when he'd been less of Sherlock's policeman and more of his minder—back when Sherlock had still been struggling more than a bit with his addiction and had been in a more than a bit not good way, and when Mycroft had weekly meetings with him to check on Sherlock's "progress"—Sherlock has never hesitated to impress upon the surrounding police officers the extent of his knowledge. It hadn't mattered if he was in the (relatively) quiet offices of New Scotland Yard—he strode in all awhirl in whatever rags he was wearing (he doesn't actually need the great coat to make an impression; John's got that one wrong in his blog) and shouted his conclusions for everyone to hear. Back then, it'd been easy to ignore shaking junkies with glazed over eyes, but the first time Sherlock stormed into the Yard, Lestrade couldn't take his eyes off the man. The cutting accent, the angles of his face, the way he bore himself tall and straight-backed. This man had no shame.

(It's why Lestrade had taken him on over all the junkies with "news to share," which was what the Yard called the junkies who raved in their cells. His predecessor had advised him that they were trying to get a rise out of the policeman on duty or just out of their minds. Either way, it was best to ignore them.)

Things haven't changed, and Sherlock's still a show off. Lestrade has come to terms with it, even enjoys it. ("Come on then," he says to Sherlock sometimes, "what've you got?" Then Sherlock, squinting suspiciously at him, takes a moment to pretend not to understand, and says something like, "Your slow uptake on the Reiner case is symptomatic of too many late nights eating cholesterol laden takeaway and drinking cheap beer after your divorce, which also shows in your expanding gut.")

Today, they've just solved a case. Lestrade wants to smile and ask Sherlock what he thought of the rusting sheep guts, but he'll have to wait until John gets his bit in. The consulting duo are clustered in between two police cars, and their voices carry quite a bit. But that might be because John is in a fit of pique and Sherlock—well, his voice just carries, doesn't it?

"For God's sake, Sherlock!" John is barking. "You cannot ask pastors if their daughters are devil worshippers!"

"But it's true," Sherlock mutters. He never raises his voice if he can help it, Lestrade's noticed.

"Well, you can't, Sherlock! You just fucking can't do fucking things like that."

Even Donovan, standing at the edge of the police tape, looks up.

"Thank you for reminding us you were also an army doctor," Sherlock says dryly.

John draws himself up. "So you admit it then. You were wrong."

"No, John, I was right. The daughter murdered several people in the worship of the devil. I believe that means I was right," Sherlock says with his patent condescending patience, but Lestrade thinks there's some real weariness in there.

"It's a bit not good," John says stoutly. "You might try a bit of tact next time."

Sherlock looks at him. For a moment Lestrade thinks he's going to lash out at John. He imagines Sherlock could do a lot of damage. If Sherlock knows whom his wife was cheating with just from working with him, he must know everything about John. Wanking patterns, even, maybe. But Sherlock whips around and walks away.

He's a creature of grace but this time Lestrade sees it. It's in the hard set of his shoulders and the way his feet sometimes scuff the pavement on the downswing. It's in the absolute control he has over his expression, the extra cold one he makes sure to shoot at Donovan as he exits the crime scene. It's like he's trying to hammer it all down—all of the sentiment, the hurt. Lestrade's seen it before in Sherlock, before he knew what it meant. He saw it every time Sherlock relapsed, every time he was about to lose his balance. He's not going to leave it be this time.

His footsteps squelch through the mud, signaling his approach, but Sherlock doesn't speed up or turn towards him. Lestrade bites his lip and offers him a cigarette.

"Only if you have one, too," Sherlock says, and Lestrade's gut twists at the tact.

He shares his light. They smoke walking towards the small town parish. It's small but gothic, a little imposing building. Lestrade is reminded of John.

"What did you think of the rusting sheep guts?"

"I've taken a sample to test further at Bart's," Sherlock says.

"John know?"

"No," Sherlock says, a thin smile appearing, "and he won't know."

They reach the church. They lean against a large headstone. The sun is bleeding across the sky. A chill settles in. Sherlock wraps his coat tighter around himself, flips his collar up.

"Remember Baskerville?" Sherlock says suddenly.

"Yeah," Lestrade says. "Creepy little village just like this one."

Sherlock chuckles. Lestrade looks at him because he's never heard Sherlock laugh. Sherlock's looking at his shoes, cigarette smoking at his fingertips. He's slouching a little. He looks a lot younger than he is.

"John came to a church graveyard after I insulted him."

This is uncharted territory. Lestrade keeps still, like he's approaching a wild animal. "What did you say?"

"I told him I didn't have friends." Sherlock takes a drag from his cigarette. Lestrade watches as he holds the smoke in, closes his eyes, expels the smoke in clean smoke rings. It's effortless.

"I was afraid of the hound," Sherlock continues. "I was scared." He looks at Lestrade as though willing him to understand. Lestrade waits, looking back. Sherlock's eyes are silvery in the dying light. "Then I came to the graveyard and tried for a joke. It's what people do, isn't it? So I said I don't have friends. I've only got one."

Lestrade holds smoke in his lungs, relishes the burn. It's bad for him, he knows, but he cherishes this moment—when he knows he's killing himself slowly with pleasure. Then, when he's dizzy with lack of oxygen and his heart's frantically pushing nicotine through his veins, he lets the smoke out.

When Sherlock speaks quietly, his baritone gets a bit higher, less rich. He's studiously not looking at Lestrade. Lestrade's almost never seen him this—small. He's not spouting things no one else knows or waving his pocket magnifier about. The coat swallows him. It flaps minimally, and only from the wind. This is Sherlock distilled, Lestrade thinks, this is the most pure version of Sherlock, this is who he really is.

"He should forgive you," Lestrade says. His voice is rougher than usual. Sherlock stands straighter.

"Should he?" he asks, and the amazing thing—the amazing thing is it's a genuine question. He's not trying to prove anything with it—he really doesn't know.

And then he understands. Suddenly, after six years of knowing him, Lestrade understands without meaning to. His mouth opens, and he takes a gasp of air, forgets the cigarette.

"Sher—" he starts, but his voice gives out. "No—Sherlock—come here," he gets out. He moves to stand directly in front of Sherlock. He reaches out, grabs Sherlock's arms, moves him away from the headstone. "No, stand up straight," he says. Sherlock's looking at him with enough suspicion to get a man life in prison, but complies.

Standing at full height, Sherlock's an inch or two taller than him. Lestrade looks up at him and keeps his hands on his arms. He swallows. But he finally gets it, and that's what makes it easy to say what he says.

He says, "He should forgive you, but he doesn't because he doesn't understand. You are a good person, Sherlock. You deserve friends and forgiveness. After all, I've forgiven you all those times, haven't I?"

Sherlock's breathing deliberately, his eyes glinting in the dim light. He seems caught, a deer about to bolt.

"And—and I like you, you know, there's not even that much I need to forgive you for, and there's stuff you should forgive me for, too." He cringes. He's rambling. He takes a deep breath, steadies himself. "I just mean, you—you've got more than one friend."

Sherlock's eyes are locked on him fixing him there. Christ, if this is what it's like being a corpse, because Sherlock's looking at him like he's a mystery, like he can't figure him out, and hasn't anyone ever said this to him? And finally Sherlock moves, jerks his arms up so he's twisting his hands together.

"Lestrade—" he starts, but instead of a word he gasps a great gust of air into his lungs. And he breathes like a man whose world is crumbling around him and he doesn't know why.

Lestrade's looking at this man trying to get a word out of those beautiful lips. He's looking at the purest form of Sherlock Holmes. He reaches down and takes Sherlock's thin hands, one in each hand, so he doesn't have to hold onto himself, so he doesn't have to hold his own hand.

"It's fine," Lestrade says, "No, really, you don't have to say anything if you don't want to."

Sherlock nods. Lestrade holds his hands until his breathing evens out.

"Better?"

Sherlock nods again. They walk back to the crime scene. Halfway there, Sherlock tugs his hand gently out of Lestrade's.

"I'll give you a ride back to 221B," Lestrade says.

"Thank you," Sherlock says. They both know what he's really thanking him for. Lestrade wishes he were still holding onto Sherlock. If he were, he'd squeeze his hand.

The crime scene is empty and dark. The dark blankets them, protects them. They can barely see each other's faces. They drive through it, radio set to a punk rock station. Even though Sherlock complains, Lestrade sees his feet tapping a bit and smiles to himself. _Take that, Vivaldi_ , he thinks, and laughs aloud. Sherlock whirls around and says _what?_ And Lestrade laughs more and says _deduce it,_ and Sherlock does, and they squabble about the merits of punk versus classical music, and Sherlock shows off the reams of unexpected information he has about Iggy Pop.

They pull up to Baker Street. 221B is lit up. They can see John sitting at the desk typing up the case.

"Text me if there's a case, Detective Inspector," Sherlock says haughtily. "And not a boring one."

Lestrade smiles. "I will."


End file.
